On that second-hand peach blanket, me and my imagination lie down. The melted memory of you spread your hand on my belly, in marvel at the small growth we had created. In fantasy, I wished for lovely self-torture of pregnancy. Upon startled awakening I swatted the desire away, not truly wanting the long-term result. You were what I really sought, the entirety of you in my possession: your body, your desire, your love. The firmament of ownership, fenced.